The Field of Psychiatry
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The Field of Psychiatry
The Field of Psychology
2-18-22 (3 months out)
Bren Linto Morrigan
Copyright 2022
What should I do, Stein, with the phrases that stick out like pointy objects from within me? Icicles or crystals or circuit boards and breakers and chips all mangled up with the guts of me?
I’m a cyborg now, I think. Part me, part you, now trying to will my soft and strong flesh to extrude you.
But sometimes I only find you. Sometimes - like the way the icy crack of pain to the side of my head will let me know a headache is coming, that is how I find another piece of your organic machinery guiding my thoughts or pointing my tongue.
This whole field feels like a lie now.
I look out upon it, the vast field in the sunset of mostly white, mostly older men standing tall as reeds and swaying in unison in the wind telling us how to get better. Inserting their opinions, their theories, their interpretations, their righteous rightness into the sky, into the soil, everywhere, often shouting, insisting.
They have built whole books and cities and vaster fields out of their own fragile bark and they agree with themselves that they are strong and this is good. They act as one, they create, they build, and the sky submits. The soil keeps giving. The ants disagree but they work.
I thought I was under your loving leaves, Stein. The next reed under your long, intentional shadow. I thought you were protecting me, building me, nourishing me, as you pushed me down, put another wire in my body, another 0, another 1, another virus from your body, another phrase under my tongue from your tongue.
Behind your head from time to time I saw the sun. When you moved out of the way, the rain descended, and I thought your timing was impeccable, I was so fucking thirsty.
You liar, you fragile bark, you borg father.
You have used the books, the color of your skin, your ability to hide in the field, swaying in false unity with your brothers to creep your machinery into the living guts of plants seeking a hospitable pasture and thinking that they found one with you.
And you would insult them, later, for thinking that. Another 0. Another 1.
The day is coming, borg father, fragile bark, liar, when my full access to the length of my stem and the height of my courage and the strength of my roots will be freed of you, your pointy things, your fucking phrases, your unexpected leftovers in my flesh, and on that day, please know, there will be nowhere, not even the men, left for you to hide.
The Field of Psychiatry
2-18-22
Bren Linto Morrigan
Copyright 2022